Dino Charge Writing Prompts
by Schen
Summary: A collection of standalone scenes featuring the Dino Charge characters. I sometimes do writing prompts for practice, and those Rangers insist on showing up.
1. The Boot

_Your character is in line at a department store waiting to return a pair of shoes. How will they react to a long line and one teller?_

She knew she would regret buying that pair of shoes. She only ever wore heels, for work, and slippers, for home, so buying that pair of fancy high-heeled boots was completely unnecessary. Why had she bought it anyway? Expressing her unconscious desire for the day her life would be more than just work and an empty home?

Going shopping for shoes had taken a precious thirty minutes out of her already-full day. Coming back to return them was going to take another ten minutes at least. She did the mental calculations as she backed into a finally-available parking lot. Five minutes from the carpark to the store, five minutes to locate the refunds counter, five minutes to talk to the staff, or ten if they didn't want to give her a refund.

She didn't think she'd have much trouble on that score, though. If she could 'persuade' a lazy waitress to show up for work on time and cajole a set of circuit boards to become a functioning machine, getting a shoe-store guy to help her out shouldn't be a problem.

Refunds counter. She hadn't shopped enough to use it before, but had no trouble finding it. She could read signs, after all. The overhead arrow promised she'd find it 'fifty metres up ahead', so at first she sailed straight past the twenty-deep queue of people without connecting the dots between it and her destination.

Then she realized that the queue ended – or rather, started – at the counter, above which was perched a big downwards-pointing arrow. Refunds counter.

She hadn't forgotten that it was Christmas again, had she? She quickly checked her phone calendar. No, it was firmly in the middle of a very boring August. Then why on earth was everyone and their mother recreating the Great Wall of China in the middle of this department store? On the one blue-moon night that she, Kendall Morgan, decided to venture into an area that wasn't her workplace?

Again she did the math. Given that the single teller at the counter was in danger of being outpaced by a glacier, she didn't see the twenty-man queue moving anywhere fast. She could spend the rest of her night and possibly part of next morning congealing in the queue. Or she could bring the shoes home and…well, the eighty bucks she'd dropped on them were gone, and she definitely begrudged the closet space she'd have to make for the shoes, but at least she could spend her night solidifying over work she hadn't been able to clear, as opposed to in this queue.

Or hey, she could bring the shoes to work with her the next day. Too many of her employees had been underperforming. Maybe she could finally give them the boot.


	2. Portrait of a Prince

_Write about what you would see in a photograph of one of your characters. A small snapshot of their life. Was the photograph taken in a studio or on location? Was it taken by a professional photographer, a friend, or did they take their own photograph?_

 _It will be interesting to see how characters from different writers will get their photos taken_.

He knew he was being watched.

It wasn't the passersby. He was used to the gazes that lingered a fraction of a second too long. After all, he was in a neighbourhood that would make his mother clutch her handbag to herself – a neighbourhood where he did not belong.

Fortunately he was skilled in deflecting unwanted attention. That was why he had chosen this spot in which to tarry. He was sitting on a flight of steps leading to the front door of an apartment which he had already established was vacant. The chest-high walls on either side of the stairway would make him invisible to passersby on the street.

Yet, somehow, he was still being watched.

He tightened his grip on his sweating frappuccino. The crowded Starbucks had convinced him it would be a good idea to find a quieter spot to drink it. He'd congratulated himself on finding this space, where he'd been unhassled for the past quarter-hour. Now he was not so sure. How long had the watcher been there?

He stood up. There was a gasp audible even from where he sat.

Two things were certain. One, he was definitely being watched. And two, he knew where – and who – his watcher was likely to be.

As he approached the tall recycling bin across the street, the shadow of the figures crouched behind it became clear. He had been wrong on one count – his watcher was not singular, but plural.

"May I be of assistance?"

A stifled scream. "Is he talking to us?"

"Of course he's talking to us, idiot!"

"But he can't, he doesn't know we're here –"

"I _told_ you to keep your big mouth shut just now –"

Philip smiled. "I can hear every word you're saying, so why don't you come out and say hello?"

Sheepishly, two boys no older than his youngest brother emerged from behind the bin. One looked defiant. The other was clearly terrified, yet somehow managed to speak.

"Are you – are you really –"

He extended his hand. "Prince Philip the Third of Zandar. Pleased to meet you."

"I told you it's him!" The terrified one elbowed the other, triumphant now. "I thought you'd have bodyguards, I didn't think it was really you!"

Clearly his efforts to pass undercover had failed. "I must commend your powers of observation, young man. I did not expect a youngster to be familiar with Zandarian royalty."

"Can we take a photo with you? Our parents, they'll never believe me, I have to prove I met you!"

For years after, when he posed for portraits with visiting politicians and dignitaries, he would think back to his favourite photo of himself: a wefie with two boys on a street in Amber Beach.


End file.
